"Conversation, my friend. Conversation and again conversation!

All the murderers I have ever come across enjoyed talking. In my opinion the strong silent man seldom commits a crime-and if he does it is simple, violent and perfectly obvious. But our clever subtle murderer-he is so pleased with himself that sooner or later he says something unfortunate and trips himself up. Talk to these people, mon cher, do not confine yourself to simple interrogation. Encourage their views, demand their help, inquire about their hunches-but, bon Dieu! I do not need to teach you your business. I remember your abilities well enouch." Sharpe smiled gently.

"Yes," he said, "I've always found-well-amiability-a great help." The two men smiled at each other in mutual accord.

Sharpe rose to depart.

"I suppose every single one of them is a possible murderer," he said slowly.

"I should think so," said Poirot nonchalantly.

"Leonard Bateson, for instance, has a temper.

He could lose control. Valerie Hobhouse has brains and could plan cleverly. Nigel Chapman is the childish type that lacks proportion. There is a French girl there who might kill if enough money were involved. Patricia Lane is a maternal type and maternal types are always ruthless. The American girl, Sally Finch, is cheerful and gay, but she could play an assumed part better than most. Jean Tomlinson is very full of sweetness and righteousness, but we have all known killers who attended Sunday school with sincere devotion. The West Indian girl Elizabeth Johnston has probably the best brains of anyone in the Hostel. She has subordinated her emotional life to her brain-Ahat is dangerous. There is a charming young African who might have motives for killing about which we could never guess. We have Colin Mcationabb, the psychologist. How many psychologists does one know to whom it might be said, Physician, heal thyself?" "For heaven's sake, Poirot. You are making my head spin! Is nobody incapable of murder?" "I have often wondered," said Hercule Poirot.

INSPECTOR SHARPE SIGHED, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead with a handkerchief. He had interviewed an indignant and tearful French girl, a supercilious and uncooperative young Frenchman, a stolid and suspicious Dutchman, a voluble and aggressive Egyptian. He had exchanged a few brief remarks with two nervous young Turkish students who did not really understand what he was saying and the same went for a charming young Iraqi. None of these, he was pretty certain, had had anything to do, or could help him in any way, with the death of Celia Austin. He had dismissed them one by one with a few reassuring words and was now preparing to do the same to Mr. Akibombo.

The young West African looked at him with smiling white teeth and childlike rather plaintive eyes.

"I should like to help-yes-please," he said. "She is very nice to me, this Miss Celia. She give me once a box of Edinburgh rock-very nice confection which I do not know before. It seems very sad she should be killed. Is it blood feud, perhaps? Or is it perhaps fathers or uncles who come and kill her because they have heard false stories that she do wrong things?" Inspector Sharpe assured him that none of these things were remotely possible. The young man shook his head sadly.